


We Bend and We Break

by Aiyestel



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-25
Updated: 2013-07-25
Packaged: 2017-12-21 07:07:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/897330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aiyestel/pseuds/Aiyestel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written as a fill for The Hobbit kmeme. OP requested five times Thorin and Bilbo touched foreheads, and the one time they didn't. Bonus "one time they didn't" for an AU, everyone lives, ending. Spoilers for BoFA if you haven't read the book.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Bend and We Break

**Author's Note:**

> I was (heck, I still am) hesitant to post this. Very first The Hobbit fanfic so please don't be too hard on me. Many thanks!

1.

They’re all exhausted, and they’ve still a long way to go before they can really rest. Gandalf promises they will have a safe place to lay their heads and tend to their injuries but that is a long day’s march ahead of them, and the sun is rising swiftly.

Bilbo is pretty sure he’s never felt this heavy before. _Light on my feet_ , he thinks to himself sarcastically, _I couldn’t slip past a troll in this state_. His feet feel like they’re made of stone and his shoulders sag beneath the weight of all that sits on them, even though he wears nothing but his torn, singed jacket and the memories of everything that’s happened on their journey so far. Who would have known cloth could be as heavy as lead?

Thorin is being fussed over by Oin who can’t hear their leader’s grumbling since his ear trumpet is flatter than one of Bilbo’s pancakes. “It’s probably for the best that he can’t hear him,” Bilbo murmurs to himself with a small smile and looks away a moment before those icy blue eyes dart up to him.

Around the carrock the dwarves are resting and taking inventory of everything that survived their foray through the goblin’s tunnels, which isn’t much. Dori is fussing over Nori who is trying to bat his older brother away. Ori is hiding a smile in his sketchbook, no doubt scratching out the scene with his pencils. For once it isn’t him on the receiving end of Dori’s mothering. Bifur is gesturing to Bofur who’s nodding as he puffs on his pipe while Bombur pulls some slightly squashed biscuits from the depths of his pockets. He presses two into the hands of his brother and cousin before devouring his own. Food was his passion, but he loves his family more. It is easy to see. Gloin, Dwalin and Balin are standing near Thorin and Oin but their attention is directed to a far distant place, towards Erebor. Bilbo finds himself wondering how it feels to be staring at the home they had been driven from so many years ago. How did it feel to see it after so much time had passed?

Kíli’s laugh draws his attention to Thorin’s nephews. Fíli is smiling, his eyes closed as he presses his forehead to his younger brother’s while Kíli tells some story.  The dwarves’ habit of pressing their foreheads together seems significant but Bilbo’s never asked the reason—it always seems so intensely personal, not something to just ask about in passing. Even now he feels as if he’s invading a private moment.

He turns and finds himself on the edge of the carrock and he feels his stomach churn as he falters at the height. It is a long way down.

“Careful, Mr. Baggins.”

He turns to find Thorin towering over him and he almost steps off the edge in surprise. There’s a hint of a smile on the dwarf’s face as he catches Bilbo’s elbow and pulls him back.

“Mr. Baggins, I—”

“I think—I think we’re on a first name basis now, Thorin,” Bilbo interrupts and stares up at him.

Thorin nods and without hesitation he bends so he can press his forehead to Bilbo’s. The hobbit stills against him and they stand there in silence for a moment that is both too long and far too short before he straightens and offers their company’s burglar a real smile.

“Yes, Bilbo, I suppose we are.”

 

 

2.

The sun’s touching the tops of the trees when Bilbo finds Thorin sitting on a downed tree outside of Beorn’s large hall. A nod of an invitation has him joining the dwarf, who looks better for having had a good night’s sleep. Their leader is warmer now, if only by small degrees but Bilbo will take what he can get and he still is unable to forget the feel of Thorin’s forehead pressed to his. He has wanted to ask, but still it seems too intimate a subject.

So instead they sit in silence and watch the pipe smoke twist in the air. The soft drone of bees from Beorn’s expansive garden is soothing; it reminds Bilbo a bit of home. There are ponies in the fields and they flick their tails as they graze peacefully. This is as close to home as he’s likely to get on their journey.

They smoke as the shadows grow longer and Bilbo is thinking of going back inside when Thorin speaks.

“It’s how we strengthen our ties with one another,” he says and Bilbo looks at Thorin, but he’s looking anywhere but at the hobbit next to him.

“Excuse me?”

Thorin takes a long pull off of his pipe and exhales before answering. “When we touch foreheads,” he explains, and his voice is warm and softer than Bilbo’s ever heard it. “I’ve noticed you watch the others when they do it.”

“Ah,” Bilbo replies, because he doesn’t know what to say. “So you will do… _that_ with anyone. To establish those bonds?”

“No. Not with anyone. It is a practice between comrades and kin. It is a personal gesture, in some ways more intimate than a hug. It is a gesture of trust, and…”

Bilbo looks up when Thorin doesn’t finish. “And?”

“It’s getting dark. We should go inside,” Thorin says and his voice is rough again, and he walks away leaving Bilbo to wonder what just happened.

“Uncle was going to say ‘love’,” a voice pipes in and Bilbo would like to pretend that he doesn’t squeak in surprise. Kíli’s smile is going to make that hard.

Fíli’s leaning on the fallen tree where Bilbo had just been sitting, his lips quirked in a smug grin. “Think of it like a kiss,” he tells Bilbo. “We dwarves find it easier that way. We run less of a risk of getting our beards tangled.”

“It’s not necessarily romantic,” Kíli interjects and then he leans forward and waggles his eyebrows. “But sometimes it is.”

He bumps his forehead to Bilbo’s and the force makes Bilbo see stars for a moment before Fíli is cuffing his brother across the back of his head and the two are bounding off before Bilbo can say anything at all.

That night when everyone has wandered off to their bed rolls Bilbo knows there will be no better time than now. Thorin is alone, sitting before the fire and before he can let the Baggins side of him talk him out of what he’s about to do he’s standing before Thorin who looks up at him in surprise.

Bilbo leans in, his hands braced against the dwarf’s thighs and presses their foreheads together gently.

“Good night, Thorin,” he says softly even as he feels fingers tangle in his curls when Thorin leans into him.

“Good night, Bilbo.”

 

 

 

3.

Bilbo thinks he’ll never be so happy to see the sunlight as when he manages to get his company out of the elf king’s dungeons. He feels like he’s been locked in the dark for months, and the ring doesn’t help matters. He has been up and down the tunnels, and he’s found all of the company except Thorin. Only the loose tongue of a few guards has assured him that he was here somewhere.

“Take this to the dwarf,” one of the cooks says and Bilbo looks up from where he’d been crouched in a corner of the kitchen waiting to swipe any food he could take without being caught. The rations were slim and his clothes hung on him like his mother’s drapes when he’d pulled them down once much to her amusement and his father’s consternation.

In the end finding Thorin is that simple, and he wonders why he hadn’t thought of it sooner. Of course they’d have to feed him. He follows them through the winding tunnels and when he sees Thorin’s face through the bars of the cell something loosens in his chest.

He waits until the guard has disappeared back down the hall, until the silence is almost deafening before he slides up to the bars. “Thorin.”

“Bilbo!”

Then Thorin’s face is in front of his but his eyes are still searching and Bilbo realizes that the ring—his ring, is still on his finger. He pulls it off and Thorin jumps back as the hobbit materializes out of nothing. “What magic is this?” he asks when he finally finds his voice again. “Can all hobbits turn invisible?”

Bilbo knows he should tell Thorin about the ring but the story is a long one and now is not the time for it. The guards could return at any moment. “Not all hobbits, only the most special,” he replies and hopes it’s enough for now.

After a long pause that has Bilbo listening for the footsteps of approaching guards Thorin nods and one large hand comes up to grip the bars between them. “How are you?”

“The others are all alive and well,” Bilbo whispers in a rush, eyes still searching shadows for figures that aren’t there. “Your nephews are well, though sore to be parted from each other and from you. They will be happy to know I’ve found y—”

A touch startles him into silence Thorin withdraws his hand from his cheek when he sees he has the hobbit’s attention. “I asked after _you_.”

Bilbo leans against the bars and the cool metal is a stark contrast to the heat of Thorin’s skin as he leans his forehead over Bilbo’s. The bars are thick and they are barely touching but it’s enough of a connection to ease some of the tension in his shoulders. “I’m fine,” he says softly. “It’s you lot I’m worried about, and how I’m going to get you out of here.”

For once the roles seem to be reversed. Thorin’s chuckle ghosts across his face. “I’m sure you will find a way, but you can’t if you’re not taking care of yourself. Are you well?”

“A little sunshine and a hot meal and I’ll be good as new,” Bilbo assures him.

They stand there, heads bent against the bars separating them surrounded by darkness and fighting, silently, not to be consumed by it.

“I should let the others know I’ve found you,” Bilbo whispers eventually, but he doesn’t move. He can’t bring himself to leave just yet. He just wants a few more seconds. He closes his eyes and his hand seeks Thorin’s in the darkness.

Just a moment longer.

 

 

4.

He’s half drowned by the time the barrels roll onto shore but there’s no time to ponder the unpleasant ache in his head as he helps pull the dwarves from the confines of the vessels that aided in their escape from the elven king’s dungeons. When they’re all free a waterlogged and grumpy Thorin goes off to discuss things with Balin and Bilbo collapses on the smooth river rocks not caring that the hilt of his letter opener is digging into his side. It feels good to be in the sun, even if he’s shivering.

Despite their trip down the river when Fíli and Kíli seat themselves on either side of him they’re radiating heat and it takes everything in him not to pull them closer like living blankets.

“Master Baggins, you’re looking a bit chilled,” Kíli says and slings his arm around the hobbit’s shoulders. “Isn’t he looking a bit chilled, Fí?”

The tenor of Fíli’s voice is enough to make Bilbo’s eyelids droop heavily. He could rest while the rest figured out their next moves. He just wanted to close his eyes for a moment.

Later he can barely recall their trek to Laketown, their welcome by the Master—though he’s assured that it’s probably for the best. Bilbo doesn’t become fully aware of his surroundings again until he’s uncomfortably warm despite being tucked into a real bed in an actual room with a door and everything. The heat isn’t from any dwarf but a fever that leaves him restless but exhausted at the same time.

It takes some tossing and turning, and a cup of bitter tea from a harassed-looking Oín before Bilbo falls into a restless sleep. He dreams of spiders and wargs, a mad chase through an endless forest and darkened tunnels into icy rapids.

When he stumbles from the river in his dream and into consciousness he finds that the fever has been replaced by wracking shivers despite being at the bottom of a pile of quilts.  

“You look miserable,” a voice says and he peeks out from between the folds of blankets to see Thorin sitting at his bedside.

“Just a little c-c-cold,” Bilbo replies and pulls the blankets tighter around himself.

“You’d think after everything we’ve been through a nice room in an actual building would offer some warmth. It’s not even that cold in here,” Thorin says, earning himself a glare.

“Says the walking furnace,” Bilbo mutters darkly and Thorin chuckles.

Before he knows what happening Thorin is toeing off his boots and climbing up onto the bed and he would complain but Thorin is so warm and when he’s pulled against the dwarf’s chest the only thing he can do is snuggle closer. The relief is almost instantaneous, and even though he’s the furthest from home he’s ever been it doesn’t feel quite so wrong here, with Thorin. In some ways being with this company of dwarves filled a hole that had been left gaping since the death of his parents. Somewhere along the way they had become his kin, all thirteen of them.

As the heat seeps beneath his skin he relaxes slightly and raises his face to Thorin’s even though sleep is making his eyes heavy again and he finds himself falling toward unconsciousness. He feels safe here; maybe even loved.

Their foreheads touch and Bilbo feels the tip of Thorin’s nose brush against his. “Sleep, Bilbo,” Thorin rumbles softly and his voice is almost a lullaby in and of itself.

“I’ll be here when you wake up.”

 

 

5.

The raven delivers the news from atop a mountain of gold. Smaug, the dragon, is dead.

The dwarves rejoice, hoarse cheers rising and echoing through a mountain that had been lost to them for so long. Their journey is over, they have won.

Erebor will not be lonely much longer.

Bilbo watches them from his spot amidst piles of gold coins and even though their victory is still so new he can’t help the nagging feeling in his heart. Ever since they’d ventured into the mountain’s halls the dwarves had been unfailing in their focus, and Thorin more than the rest combined. The arkenstone had to be found. Every day they searched, turning over piles of treasure, but Bilbo knew they would never find it. He knew because the stone was folded deep among the contents of his pack.

There is an army on their doorstep, an army that will turn back if they are only given enough to rebuild a city destroyed by Smaug’s wrath. But greed had made Thorin stubborn. It has changed him and Bilbo seems to be the only one who can see it clearly. It is as obvious as the sparkle of the very stone that now lies between them. As obvious as it was when he had caught sight of it peeking out from beneath a mountain of wealth as if it had meant for Bilbo to find it. And he had taken it, knowing that only drastic measures will save the dwarves around him. He will be the deceiver, the betrayer.

It is the only way to save them.

Under the cloak of night Bilbo makes his deal even if he does so with a heavy heart. He knows when he is found out—and he will be, of that he has no doubt, his welcome will be suddenly and irrevocably overstayed. But despite the protests of Bard and Thranduil he returns to them, to the dwarves that are his kin, because that is where he belongs and he will selfishly take time he has left to spend with them.

So he picks his way back up the mountain and luck is with him that none of the dwarves have noticed his absence. And despite the fact that he hasn’t slept since they’ve retaken the mountain he can’t let his eyes close just yet. He tucks himself in next to Thorin who had laid out their bedrolls side-by-side and stares at the sleeping dwarf. He’s a king now, well, not officially maybe, but he has his mountain back. He has his home.

Bilbo leans in and brushes a lock of raven hair off the sleeping dwarf’s forehead. “I did it for you, you know,” he whispers.

There’s no response, not that he expected one, and he leans in with a heavy sigh and leans his forehead against Thorin’s so even in sleep they’re pressed together. This gesture had become the one intimate gesture they allowed themselves. _Just until the mountain is ours again,_ Thorin had assured him. But they hadn’t foreseen this. Bilbo knows this might be the last chance he gets now.

“There are things that are worth more than gold, more than jewels. You are one of those things, so are the others even those mischievous nephews of yours. I would give up a thousand arkenstones to save you, even if you hated me more for each one. I hope one day you will see that.”

His confession is lost to the darkness.

 

 

6\. ( _Canon Compliant)_

His scalp is tacky with blood that still oozes sluggishly from a cut above his temple. Errant fingers brush at it, smear it, but otherwise don’t pay it much mind. His is too busy trying frantically to prove that this cannot be true. Of all the things Bilbo had expected he had never considered this.

“How did this happen?” he asks aloud, and his voice sounds foreign to him.

But no one is there to answer. Not Thorin, or Fíli, or Kíli. They are all dead. Not Gandalf, who has left him to say his final goodbyes to a dwarf who had stomped into his heart as surely as he had stomped into Bag End all those many months ago. It felt like that had been years ago and at the same time like it had only happened yesterday.

_“I wish to take back my words so that we may not part on such terms,” Thorin’s voice had been strained and he had closed his eyes briefly against the pain. “You are no coward, Bilbo Baggins, and I think now that if we valued a mug of ale and the company of good friends over gold we might be happier for it.”_

_Bilbo had choked back a sob and taken Thorin’s hand in both of his. “Thorin…”_

_“I am sorry that I must make my farewell to you, Bilbo.” His voice faded, and he took a shuddering breath. “I never meant for it to end this way.”_

_“Nor I,” Bilbo had murmured bowing his head over their linked hands._

_By the time he had looked up Thorin had been gone._

“Hobbits are not made to leave the Shire, you know,” he says because he can’t think of anything else to say and he can’t bring himself to leave. “It changes us. We find ourselves being sent off on adventures by meddling wizards and taking up with dwarves. We leave our homes in such a rush that the pantry is still bare and the mud you all tread into my carpet left to dry. We think less about a warm meal and cold ale than we do about escaping dungeons and sneaking past dragons. It makes us not miss our armchairs and our books as much as we’ll miss those taken too soon.”

He squeezes Thorin’s hand. “I think I understand why my mother always seemed to get that distant look in her eye though. We’re just not the same anymore; it doesn’t matter that we go back.”

And he will go back because there’s no place for him here where everywhere he looks is a reminder of all that he’s lost—everything they have all lost. He’s not the only one who mourns their loss. No, he’d seen the tears on Balin’s face as he’d followed Gandalf across the battlefield. He’d seen Dwalin’s shoulders sag beneath the heavy price they’d paid. He knows he’s not the only one who suffers.

And they will want to see him too.

He stumbles slightly when he rises and the stool clatters to the ground behind him. Thorin’s cheek is softer than he imagined as he lays his hand against it. His beard, trimmed short, tickles his palm and he wishes he had done this when he could have felt the quirk of a smile beneath his fingers. “I will never forget you.”

“My dear Bilbo, are you ready?” Gandalf’s voice is low and he felt the wizards hand on his shoulder.

Tears threaten to spill down his cheeks and his throat constricts painfully so he nods and lets the wizard lead him out of the tent.

It is only later, when he’s tucked into the corner of a tent that he realizes he hadn’t bent to touch his forehead to Thorin’s, that he had missed his last chance. He would never again stretch up on his toes or have Thorin bend down to him for that one intimate gesture they had shared.

 _Think of it like a kiss_ , _Fili’s voice was a soft reminder in his ear._

Bilbo bites down on his lip and squeezes his eyes shut against a new flood of tears. He presses his fingers to his forehead but it’s not the same.

It will never be the same.

 

7\. ( _AU ending_ )

Time seems to have forgotten him as he sits on the mountainside staring blankly at the battlefield before him. Dirt sticks to the wound in his head and coats his tongue and makes his fingernails look black. It’s over. They’ve won. At some point the wave of wargs and orcs had been so great Bilbo had feared they would fall beneath them but with the combined forces of the dwarves and men and elves somehow they had beat back the tide. And then the eagles had come, rescuing them once again.

And they had won. Bilbo wonders why he’s so surprised.

“Bilbo.”

The voice startles him out of his thoughts so quickly that he slips from his perch and only a strong hand on his elbow keeps him from tumbling down the hillside.

Thorin is there standing over him and he’s sweaty and dirty and covered in blood but Bilbo’s never been so happy to see him in all his life. He’s alive.

“Thorin, I know I’m bani—”

He was cut off by fingers pressed against his lips. “Peace, my burglar, there are things I need to say, and words I need to take back.”

Bilbo gripped at the hand against his mouth and squeezed it gently. “On both sides,” he said and offered a small smile to Thorin.

“I struggle against the gold fever,” Thorin says, and Bilbo knows how hard that admission must be for a seasoned warrior and leader. “I still struggle, but I see now that the true wealth of our people has never been the dragon’s hoard.”

The battlefield is stained and scarred by the fighting, but here and there dwarves are picking their way through the ruin, helping injured comrades and piling up orcs and wargs to burn. Even now they carry on, as they have always done.

“It will not be easy. _I_ will not be easy.” Thorin bends his head down to look sideways at him and Bilbo tilts his head to meet the dwarf king’s eyes. “I’ve never been easy,” he amends and they both laugh.

“You are stubborn, and hard-headed,” Bilbo says and he sees Thorin raise an eyebrow in question. “But you have been a steadfast leader, and you have seen us through a difficult journey.” Thorin is still staring at him but his eyes are soft and there’s a hint of a smile on his face. “What I mean to say is that you are allowed to be difficult…on occasion.”

Thorin chuckles and folds Bilbo’s hand into his. “I would have you forget my words at the gate. You are no coward, and I should never have sent you away. The mountain is ours again thanks in no small part to your courage. I would have you stay and reap the benefits.”

Bilbo shakes his head, a stray curl falling into his eyes at the motion. “Hobbits have no need for gold and jewels, Thorin. We are a simple people. A full pantry, a warm hearth, a bit of earth to work, and we are content.”

Suddenly Thorin leaning into him and his blue eyes are serious, “There are things besides gold and jewels that I would give to you, Bilbo.”

Of all the things Bilbo had expected on this adventure he hadn’t expected this.  Sure, he had been surprised by the spiders and wargs and eagles, but the one thing he hadn’t expected, the one thing that surprised him the most was here sitting beside him on a field of hard-earned victory. It was the fact that here at the end of it all was that he might consider home to be closer than it had been back in the Shire.

Thorin is so close now they could almost bow their heads together like they had done before.

“Thorin, I—” His reply was cut off by an excited shout, and here came Fíli and Kíli, limping and bloodied but grinning from ear to ear. “UNCLE! BILBO!”

Thorin muttered something in Khuzdul before rising to receive his nephews, pulling them both against his chest despite the combined exclamations of pain at the squeezing. Bilbo watches them with a smile—this is the real treasure of the Durin line.

“Mr. Boggins!” Kíli is pulling him up and hugging him. “We’ve won! It’s time to celebrate!”

“Dain’s warriors procured some ale and the company is demanding the presence of their illustrious leader,” Fíli explained. “And you too, Uncle.”

Kíli’s laughing then and Fíli is ducking out of the way of his uncle’s backhand. They set off back down the hillside as Thorin turns back and holds out his hand.

“Will you join me, Bilbo?”

He doesn’t hesitate to grab Thorin’s hand. There’s never been an easier decision to make.


End file.
